


Game Theory

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, Episode Related, Family, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Adler case, Sherlock engages in some distinctive social strategising, John has to make do with imperfect information and Mycroft, as always, plays a zero sum game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Everything is as amiable as before in the aftermath. Which isn’t necessarily all that amiable at all. The Holmes brothers are not speaking to each other again and Sherlock has deliberately taken to leaving his mobile behind when he goes out. John doesn’t know what Sherlock’s been doing until, one evening, Lestrade turns up with a bottle of rosé and some explanations.

“I don’t know what you said to him but you may want to… not necessarily take it back but, you know, tone it down a little.”  
“What _I_ said? What did he tell you?”  
“Nothing, nothing.”  
“Right.”  
“It’s not every day that someone breaks into your house and does your laundry.”

Sherlock has, apparently, been breaking into Lestrade’s house and tidying up for the last two weeks. The implication being that it’s some kind of apology.

“Look, just tell him that he doesn’t need to. I…” Lestrade looks embarrassed. “I’ll take him out to dinner to say thank you, you know?”  
“All casual, like?” John grins.  
“If I’m not treading on anyone’s toes, that is.”  
“No worries here. Go for it.”

After Lestrade leaves John finds that he’s smiling to himself over the exchange. Both the idea of Sherlock actually going out of his way to do useful things for someone, as well as Lestrade’s nervous motions at proposing what sounds distinctly like a date, leave John with a rather cheery, optimistic, feeling about life in general.

A few days later, when Sherlock has all but run away from John attempting to talk to him, on several occasions, Molly Hooper arrives, unannounced. She hands over some, evidently home-baked, banana bread and tells John to pass on the message that Sherlock really needs to drink less coffee.

“I suppose he’s been down in the labs again.” It’s not a question and gives her a hapless smile to go with it.  
“Ah, yes! I mean, he’s working and everything but- He’s- well. Whatever you said to him: thank you.” She hugs John quickly, looking embarrassed as she does so.  
This is starting to sound familiar. “I didn’t say anything. What’s he done now?”  
“You didn’t? Oh, oh! Yes, of course you didn’t.” Molly shakes her head as if to add to what she evidently believes is an acknowledged lie on John’s part.  
“Molly?”  
“It’s just, he’s been so nice recently. You know, since- We’ve been going out for coffee if I have the time…”  
John’s face falls.  
“Oh! It’s nothing like _that_. He’s just-“  
“Being nice.”

Quite why Sherlock is engaged in some campaign of niceness is something that John doesn’t want to speculate on. Niceness, after all, is simply a strategy of social interaction. That said, Sherlock has never bothered himself with greasing the wheels of social interaction for anything longer than five minutes at a stretch. Neither, so John considers, has he benefited from Sherlock’s sudden largesse. Then, one morning, John comes downstairs to find Sherlock putting away the shopping.

“You… you know? I’m not going to ask.”  
“I don’t know why you complain about it so much. It’s not _that_ much of a chore.” Sherlock is busy stashing things in the freezer and doesn’t even glance in John’s direction.  
“Oh, I don’t know? Maybe it’s the trawling round Tesco trying to find everything and then-“  
“Tesco?”  
“Yes…”  
“That’s where you’re going wrong. Honestly, John.” Sherlock sits back in his haunches and favours John with a slightly mocking smile.  
John’s about to protest when he finally registers the name on the shopping bags piled up on the table. “ _Fortnum and Mason_. You did our weekly shop at Fortnum and Mason!”  
“They’re grocers. Your point being?”  
“Grocers to the Queen! How much did you spend? That’s probably a few months worth of our shopping budget.”  
“Nonsense. I put it on Mycroft’s Centurion card.”  
“Your brother has more money than sense.”  
“No. My brother has more sense than money but he’s working on that.”

John decides that arguing that point is best left for another time and simply helps put the rest of the shopping away. He even manages to refrain from commenting on the fact that Sherlock has seen fit to buy a boxed set of two patterned bone china tea cups with saucers, and a gold plated tea strainer.

Groceries safely tucked away, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock decides that he’s going to make the tea. Of course, seeing as Sherlock appears to be in a peculiarly pleasant mood overall, this process involves a tray of tea things and the new cups that he’s just bought. Sherlock has, granted, offered to make the tea in the past, but, depending on his mood, John has sometimes been served his tea in a two hundred and fifty millimetre, heat-proof, beaker. The fact that today Sherlock seems to be in the mood to do things properly is an unexpected boon that John’s not going to overlook.

“Here, I’ll-“  
Sherlock slaps John’s hand away from the teapot. “It’s not brewed yet.”  
“You’re timing it?”  
“Of course.”  
“Right.”

John refrains from commenting that if Sherlock really wanted to observe correct form he’d have warmed the cups with some hot water too.

“Is that important?”  
“What?”  
“The cups.”  
“Oh, you mean warming them? It helps. Otherwise when the tea hits the cold cup the heat will dissipate somewhat.”  
“Damn.”

Much to John’s amusement, Sherlock actually carries the cups to the kitchen carefully and proceeds to use a little hot water to warm them, as per John’s direction.

“I need to get this right.”  
“Why? I don’t mind all that much. Really.” John’s going for lightness of tone as he says it.  
“You might not but Mycroft will.”  
“I thought you two weren’t talking?”  
“We’re not. I need to do something about that.”  
“Yeah? It’s never bothered you before.”  
“Mycroft is not talking to _me_ , John.”  
“Oh. But-“  
“I’ve left messages at his office, put notes through his letterbox, I even left a message at his club.”  
“The Carlton Club, right?” John teases.  
“Of course not. Don’t be asinine.”  
“Right. Right, sorry.”  
Sherlock sighs. “The Diogenes Club. Where, up until recently, I had a standing invitation.”  
“Mycroft’s had you banned from his club? That’s a bit… well, petty, isn’t it?”  
“Oh, that wasn’t Mycroft. That was our mother, who, as we speak, may well be rearranging her will.”  
“What? Because Mycroft’s-“  
“Mycroft is… has been upset by my recent behaviour. He won’t do anything about it though. He’ll simply retreat to lick his wounds. Somehow, my mother has caught wind of this and…”  
“She’d cut you out of her will just because you had a fight with your brother?” John is utterly incredulous.  
“Of course. All resources must be put to good use and I, apparently, am not a good investment.” Sherlock’s tone is a touch more sad than bitter.

John doesn’t have anything comforting to say to that so he slings an arm round Sherlock’s shoulders awkwardly and pulls him close. Sherlock covers his face with his hands and leans against John’s side. John pretends that he doesn’t hear what sounds distinctly like a sob.

The tea must be tepid, if not cold outright, by the time Sherlock pulls away from John. John feels a conflicting jumble of emotions at what’s just happened. Sherlock is obviously in distress over his family’s behaviour but his overtures towards his brother seem to be being entirely rebuffed. John has no idea of the family dynamic at work, though he’s starting to suspect, from all the fragmentary pieces, that Mycroft is, and has always clearly been, the favourite. Sherlock’s mother is prepared to cut him out of her will because Mycroft is upset.

“It was my father.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“The reason I’m… trying to be…”  
“Niceness is a decision, a strategy of social interaction; it is _not_ a character trait.” John snaps, managing to recall the quote verbatim.  
Sherlock brushes a hand across his eyes. “Daddy texted me. He never texts. He prefers to talk.” Sherlock’s voice is so soft that John has to strain to hear him.  
“Bloody hell. Both your parents need their ears boxing.”  
A snort. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

John stares at the tea things on the table. The fine gold pattern on the tea cups and saucers seems to catch the light quite beautifully. It’s an irrational thought but the only one that runs through his head. He can’t even begin to come up with some sort of coherent plan to ease Sherlock’s distress.

“Daddy said that my behaviour had been abominable, to all parties concerned. That was the entirety of his message.”  
John grinds his teeth because it’s never good form to tell someone that their father is a twit.  
“He… he doesn’t normally talk to me like that. He’s always taken my side before. Even when I was little. He used to tell Mycroft off for scolding me.”

So that’s how it is. The beloved, favoured, parent now no longer fighting Sherlock’s corner. That piece of information changes any assumptions John could make all over again. As far as John knows, Sherlock hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary of late. There’s nothing that would warrant his family cutting him off entirely.

“This isn’t…? Look, Sherlock, your parents-“  
“Jeopardise the security network and you can expect repercussions to come from the top.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“No? No, it doesn’t matter.”

John watches as Sherlock begins to clear away the tea things.

“Is this- it’s something to do with family reputation, right?”  
“Correct.”  
“So you… interfered with Mycroft’s plans and…?”  
“And? With him falls an empire.”  
“Wait- what?”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to answer but the doorbell ringing interrupts him.

“Sherlock?”  
“Except… Mycroft, you utter bastard.”

Mycroft pauses in the doorway, one hand resting on his ever-present umbrella, the other holding a large bunch of red roses. John can’t read the silent conversation that passes between the brothers, but, whatever it is, it seems to lift Sherlock’s spirits considerably.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring me white.”  
“Equally appropriate of course.”  
“Of course.”

Sherlock crosses the room to stand in front of Mycroft and then, much to John’s absolute surprise, slaps his brother hard across the face.

“I deserved that.”  
“Of course you did. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

Mycroft hands over the flowers and reaches up, with his now free hand, to touch his reddened cheek carefully.

“I trust Ms Adler was suitable for your… program.”  
“Yes, she’s doing remarkably well.”  
“You’ll be confiscating both phones of course.”  
“Yes. You will tell me if she attempts to contact you again.”  
“So you can what?”  
“Cut her pretty face off with a breadknife.” Mycroft smiles as he says it.

Alarmingly, to John’s mind at least, Sherlock laughs. Seemingly delighted with the prospect.

“Didn’t you tell me that love was a weakness?”  
“Oh, it is. But I like to think of this as more of an… obsession.”  
“How terrifying.” Sherlock’s voice drops to a whisper.  
“Aren’t I just? And that’s what you like best of all.”

John can’t help his mouth falling open at the exchange. If he’s reading it correctly, and he’s fairly certain that he is, then the brothers are openly flirting. Of course there’s the possibility that he’s wrong, that he’s simply misreading the situation based on his own limited understanding. That has to be the only sensible conclusion.

“Very observant, doctor.” Sherlock smirks, catching John’s eye.  
“Right, yup. I just- Sorry about-“

At which point Sherlock grabs hold of his brother’s tie, and proceeds to use it as a leash, to lead Mycroft down the hallway towards his bedroom. There really isn’t any way that John can think he’s misconstruing _that_ action.

**Author's Note:**

> "Niceness is a decision, a strategy of social interaction; it is not a character trait."  
> \- De Becker, G. 1997: The Gift of Fear and Other Survival Signs that Protect us from Violence. p. 67. New York: Dell Publishing.


End file.
